Just Saying, Is All...Playing the Blame Game with Alex Rodriguez

And to think they called him gutless.

It takes a big man to admit a mistake. It takes a bigger man to pass the buck. And to bail on a $250 million contract before having a change of heart and proceeding to blame the entire fiasco on your agent—

That, Bubba, takes a Ruthian set of cojones.

No wonder Alex Rodriguez’s name didn’t turn up in the Mitchell Report.

America got its first look at the new A-Rod on Sunday’s edition of 60 Minutes. Gone was the pushover who snubbed the Yankees and then crawled home with his pinstripes between his legs. In his place was a man of conviction, a stone-jawed dynamo who stared down Katie Couric and laid fault exactly where it belonged:

With that awful, awful Scott Boras.

Whose client only wanted to weasel out of a nine-figure deal.

Without making a scene.

Or alienating his employer.

Or coming across as just a little, you know, money-hungry.

I’ll admit it—I thought Rodriguez was crazy for re-upping in New York after so many years of abuse. Now I see the logic. Self-delusion’s a powerful thing, after all, and from where I sit it looks like No. 13 has managed to backpedal his way into one mother of a win-win situation.

If he finally gets that World Series ring in 2008, he’s the toast of the Big Apple.

If he doesn’t, he’ll always have Scott Boras to finger—or Derek Jeter or Hank Steinbrenner or whoever else has the gall to pervert his earnest and most honorable intentions.

And hey—who says 250 mil can’t buy you a ticket out of the real world?

In any event, A-Rod’s new shtick is sure to play well with the Bronx faithful, who at the very least know a hero when they see one on TV. If there’s one thing Gothamites love more than a choker, it’s a fink—and if there’s one thing they love more than a fink, it’s a fink who commands a quarter-billion dollars to sit at home while the Red Sox throw champagne parties every October.

Sometimes, Bubba, you get what you want.

Sometimes you get what you need.

And sometimes you get an overpriced third baseman with a wicked case of the autumn yips and an unfortunate tendency to stick his foot in his mouth—which, for the record, has yet to prevent him from only just saying, is all...

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